


Scenes From the Life and Death of Jackson Overland Frost

by Sakon76



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-09 13:09:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 20,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sakon76/pseuds/Sakon76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What the title says.  Part 14: TimeKeeper. Jamie understands the consequences of being in the middle of a battle of immortals far better at sixteen than he did at ten. But he can't just stand back and let Jack fight alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Midwife

November, 1693

The child is born on an icy November night. The winds howl loud outside the house on the edge of the forest, driving snow and sleet in their wake. The motherland never had such bad winters, the midwife thinks, conveniently forgetting that England had its own problems, ones that she had embraced the chance to leave behind.

The mother-to-be is only eighteen, and has no mother, no sisters to do this for her. Like the rest of them, she left her family behind to come to this godforsaken territory, in the hope of a better life.

The midwife thinks that was a lie, and worries that the young woman will die. Whatever she can do to tip the scales, she will, but it is ultimately in God's hands.

She tries to soothe the agony of birth, singing quiet old songs, wiping the sweat from the woman's brow, timing her contractions. She wishes her own daughter did not have to witness this violent, bloody thing, but it is part of a woman's life, and hopefully someday the village will need more than one midwife.

There is a thick leather strap in the mother-to-be's mouth, that she bites on when the pain is too bad to bear. It keeps her screams to agonized wails that match the wind's. It also keeps her from biting her tongue or damaging her teeth. They have the blacksmith, but he is no doctor, and all he can do is pull a rotted tooth. Teeth are important.

The father is not in the small building. Though the midwife does not doubt he adores his young wife, men have no place in the birthing room. Her own husband had taken Thomas back to their cabin. If she suspects he is plying Frost with the devil's brew... well, they may all wish for some before the night is done.

The fire is built high; thank God the village's store of wood is ample, this year. But the room feels cold, like ice. If she were a more superstitious woman, she would think it was death's fingers coming to claim one life, possibly two. But she is not, and it is almost time.

"That's good, Anne," she says, nodding at her daughter to change places with her, to let Anne crush her hand instead in a painful grasp. "You're almost there." Anne pants harshly. "Give her a sip of water," the midwife instructs, and her daughter hurries to do so, taking the leather bit out, tilting the tin cup against Anne's mouth. The laboring woman gulps the water thirstily, as well she might. This night, her body is doing the work of a man's.

All too soon, the pain begins again. The midwife positions herself between Anne's legs, one hand on her straining belly. "Push," she instructs. Luckily, the child is in the right position; she can see the crown of its head.

Anne cries against the strap.

"Push," the midwife says again, her other hand now on the child's head. "PUSH!"

Anne screams.

With one last heave from his mother's body, the child comes into the world, slippery and red in the firelight. It is a long moment of silence, then he wrinkles up his mouth and cries.

The storm, the midwife thinks. The storm has stopped.

Anne has fallen back on her bed, panting, crying. As well she might; she has done a magnificent thing this night, bringing life into the world. The midwife keeps an eye on Anne, and on how well her daughter takes care of the woman, while she tends to the newborn. Her daughter does a good job, and by the time she has the child cleaned up, Anne is ready to hold him. She is exhausted, sweaty, but radiant. Now they merely need watch her for milk-fever. God willing, all will be well.

"Fetch Master Frost," the midwife instructs her daughter, and the teenager obeys, taking her bonnet and cloak from the peg by the door before vanishing outside, into the night.

"He's beautiful," Anne whispers, touching her son with wondering fingers.

"Aye," the midwife agrees, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You did well." She doubts there will be another child soon, possibly ever. The work of birth is hard, and some women are slow to recover from it. She has seen many, and feels in her bones that Anne is such a one. But this child is strong.

The door bangs open, revealing a moonlit winter night outside. Thomas Frost's form fills the door for an instant before he moves to his wife's side, not even removing his cloak or cap in his haste. "Oh, Annie." There is no trace of liquor on his voice or breath, and the midwife is glad that her husband restrained himself. Or that Frost was wise enough to stay sober. His brown eyes glance up at her.

"All is well," the midwife reassures him.

He smiles up at her, and it must have been that very smile that captured his wife's heart. She can't help smiling back. "Keep her warm, and quiet," she instructs. "Come fetch me immediately if she begins a fever or a chill." With a nod at new mother and new father, she goes to the door, where her daughter waits, collects her own coat and bonnet, and leaves. In the cold winter moonlight, she sends a brief prayer of thankfulness to God, that this night there was no tragedy.

Behind her, in the small cabin, Thomas Frost runs wondering fingers over his son, marveling at the tiny fingers, the delicate nose, the unhappy, frustrated expression of an infant thrust into a world it does not understand. "He's perfect," he murmurs, reverent, as deeply thankful as he was on the day the priest joined him to his wife in marriage.

"What shall we name him?" Anne murmurs. Her voice is rough, and though he knows little of women's things, Thomas knows this night has been hard on her. Harder, perhaps, than leaving her family behind had been, and she had soaked his shirt after the ship's last sight of England.

Perhaps he can give her a little of that back. "Jackson?" he suggests quietly.

Her dark eyes look up at him, surprised that he would suggest her family name. "Overland," she suggests for a second name. The name of his older brother, who had drowned when Thomas was just a child.

He nods, and can't help smiling. "Jackson Overland Frost," he tries the name out. It sounds well. So it shall be.

Shining bright through one of the two small windows, paned with expensive glass, the moon welcomes the child.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thus, Jack is born in winter the first time around too. With the Man in the Moon watching him already.


	2. Milk Teeth

March, 1699

The tooth is loose in his mouth, and wiggles when he pushes it with his tooth. It wasn't that way the last time he checked, and Jack doesn't know when it started. He demonstrates this wiggliness to his Ma, who crouches down in front of him, examines this new ability most seriously, then smiles at him. Not knowing why, Jack still grins back.

His father is out with Masters Marshall and Dale that day, felling trees to clear a new field, so it is Missus Frost who takes Jack to the blacksmith, where he's usually told _not_ to go. But there is always all sorts of interesting clanging going on and cherry-red fires and metal taking new and interesting shapes that Jack always, _always_ hopes will be a sword, but which sadly it never has yet. So Jack has been caught there more often than he should be. But today his Ma is taking him, so that's all right.

He's too big now to need to be held by the hand, and he struts proudly by her side with this freedom. They pass Adam and Richard, old enough now to be of help, each carefully carrying a bucket of water to their separate homes, and he spies Mary sitting by her house. At first he thinks she's playing at something, but then he sees she's laboriously mending a patch onto a shirt. He knows her Ma made her practice sewing over the whole winter, so he figures Mary has to be pretty good at it by now. Jack takes his hat off and waves it at her. She looks up and waves back, but his Ma is moving on and Jack needs to keep up.

There are three new houses in the village this spring, three new families who moved here, which makes the village seem so much bigger. Only one of them had a kid Jack's age, though, and Stanley Pritchard is a stuck-up scoundrel if Jack ever saw one, putting on airs just because he came on a boat.

(Some day, Jack is going to have his own boat, and see the whole world. And wipe that smug look off Stanley Pritchard's face.)

And then they're at the smithy, and have to wait while Master Black finishes shoeing Master Rowling's plowhorse, which apparently has a split hoof. Jack looks at his foot and thinks that he wouldn't like a split toe, so the horse can go first. His Ma gets to hold Missus Gibson's new baby girl, and she looks sad and wistful, but Jack doesn't know why. His Ma rocks the baby while she talks with the other village women, things about their vegetable and herb gardens, and the pigeon hunting, and had they any word about the native tribes? Jack mostly tunes it out in favor of watching Master Black work and wiggling his tooth.

CLANG! goes the hammer. Master Rowling is holding the horse's head, but Jack thinks it still can't be comfortable to have a nail driven into your hoof.

CLANG! Moving his tooth feels kind of like picking at a scab. It kind of hurts, but it's kind of a good hurt too. His Ma glances down at him and he obediently freezes and sits up straight. But it's just too interesting, and he leans forward again to watch.

CLANG! Master Black lets the horse's leg go, its hoof all better now. Maybe Jack might like to be a blacksmith. He would get to stand here all day and work with iron, turning it into interesting, useful things.

But on the other hand, he'd have to stand here all day and not go do and see things. The smithy's fire is very hot, and he can't imagine having to work with it all day in the summer, instead of going in the woods and feeling the cool air on his face.

Maybe Jack won't be a smith.

Master Black has noticed him now, and his Ma hands back the baby. Jack is ushered forward, his Ma's hand on his back. "Let him see your tooth, Jack," she says, and Jack obediently opens his mouth wide, wiggling it with his tongue.

Master Black crouches down and grins, and he's a big man with huge arms and a burned leather apron, but Jack can't help smiling back. He loves smiling. "Well, now," the smith says, "that's a beauty and no mistake about it. His first?" he asks, looking up at Jack's mother. She nods.

"Well, then, young Jackson, we have two choices here."

Jack straightens up and is attentive. He loves choices. Whether to go fishing or trap squirrels. Whether to have squash or beets on his plate. Whether to play jacks or hopscotch.

"Either we can wait for that lovely thing to come out on its own, or we can take it out now."

Jack considers. "Which one's better?"

"There's not a better, just a different. Taking it out now's quicker, but waiting hurts less."

Jack is not a big fan of pain. But his tooth kind of hurts already, so it can't hurt more, right? "Now," he decides.

"All right." Master Black stands and walks over to his tools, selects one, then comes back.

The tongs are very big, and Jack doesn't particularly like how black they are, and he is very sure they won't fit into his mouth. He kind of shrinks back against his Ma.

"Or would you prefer to wait?" Master Black asks him.

Jack swallows. "H-how long will I have to wait?"

"It should come out on its own within two weeks."

Jack looks at the tongs again, and he doesn't want to be a crybaby, but he also doesn't want those tongs in his mouth. "I'll wait," he decides.

Master Black nods. "Just be careful you don't swallow it, young Jackson."

Jack is led away by his mother, a whole new set of problems swirling in his mind.

_Swallow it?!_

* * *

He is very careful with the tooth over the next several days, checking it with his tongue whenever he remembers. He doesn't want to swallow it the same way he doesn't want to swallow an apple seed, because then it might sprout in his tummy and start growing and... well, he doesn't know what a tooth might grow into, but he doesn't think it would be good to have it growing inside him.

But every morning and every night, it's still there in his mouth, even if it's a little wigglier and a little looser. He shows it to Adam and Richard and Mary and Nellie and even John Fuller, who's a little bit of a baby, being age four, but still tags around with them anyway. He doesn't show Stanley Pritchard, but somehow Stanley finds out anyway and comes over to lord it over the rest of them.

"I lost my tooth last winter," he says, "and the Tooth Fairy left me a whole _ha'penny_."

The rest of them look at each other in confusion, never having heard of such a person. Jack, being the one most affected, finally asks, "Tooth Fairy?"

"Of course you _colonials_ wouldn't have heard of her," Stanley dismisses. "If you put your tooth under your pillow, she comes in the middle of the night and leaves you a present."

"What about the tooth?" Nellie asks.

"She takes it, of course."

"What does she _do_ with it?" Adam asks.

Stanley sniffs. "As if I would know such a thing." He swans off like he's the King himself and owns the whole village.

Jack is the oldest of them, and the others look at him doubtfully. "Do you think he's telling the truth, Jack?" asks Mary.

He tests his tooth again with his tongue. "I don't know," he says. His expression hardens. "But I'm going to find out!"

It takes three more days before the tooth comes out, and it's strangely anticlimactic. He's eating supper when he feels a bit of turnip uncomfortable against a strange place in his mouth. Jack spits the turnip into his hand and there, hard next to it, is his tooth. He immediately pokes his tongue against the strange-feeling empty spot in his mouth, then shows off his prize to his parents.

His father laughs delightedly, and promises him a game of battling tops after supper, as a reward, while his Ma holds the tooth up against the firelight, smiling. She hands it back to him and tells him to keep it safe.

He doesn't tell them about his plan to find out if there is such a thing as the Tooth Fairy, or if Stanley Pritchard really is just a lying liar.

That night, when the fire is banked to glowing coals and Jack's bed is pulled out from under his parents', he lays his head down on the pillow and slips the tooth underneath.

One way or another, Jackson Frost is going to find out the truth.

* * *

The next morning starts like any other, with his Ma getting out of bed to stir the fire, and his father getting dressed and going to the stream to fetch water. There's corn mush for breakfast, which Jack loves, so it's not until he's tidying his bed for it to get put away for the day, that he remembers about the tooth.

He hesitates, then lifts his pillow.

Sitting there, on his thin mattress, is a whole shining silver _English penny_.

Jack gapes for a minute, then whoops, picking up the coin.

"Jack?" his Ma asks him.

"The Tooth Fairy came!" Jack says, still clutching his pillow while showing off his prize. "She left me a whole penny!"

His Ma looks shocked and kneels down before him, taking the coin momentarily and examining it. She looks at Jack's father, who just gives his head a little shake, but Jack's too excited to try and figure out what that's about. "Can I go show the others?" he begs. "Please?"

"Finish making your bed first," his Ma tells him, and Jack's bed has _never_ been made so quick before he runs out the door, coin in hand. He can't _wait_ to rub it into Stanley's face that he got a whole penny.

In his glee, it never occurs to him that this means Stanley was right. In fact, he finds it hard to remember why he didn't like Stanley. Though the other boy will give him plenty of reminders over the following days and years, Jackson Frost now counts Stanley Pritchard among his group of friends. And where Jack leads, other children follow. Always.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Pennsylvania had its own currency in 1699. It held about three-quarters of the value of English currency. A farm laborer at that time earned about ten pence a day; you may judge Jack's windfall accordingly.


	3. Egg Hunting and Trapping

March 28th, 1703

Pre-dawn quiet. Bunnymund relished it. This little village in the middle of nowhere, New World, was barely a dozen houses arranged around a central area. But they were humble, industrious folk, and had good relations with the local Lenape. Maybe they'd make it. And regardless of whether or not the village thrived, its children deserved the joy of an Easter egg hunt.

Hiding his brightly-colored eggs here and there, where they weren't quite out in the open, but also not likely to be overlooked, Bunnymund hummed to himself, enjoying his work. Picturing the joy on the children's faces... now, that was what this was all about.

He crept up on a bush convenient to one of the paths into the woodlot, and directed a quartet of pretty little kippers, all pink and green, to hide underneath. Right, that should be enough. His work here was done.

Turning to go, his long ears heard a rustle and then he was yanked unceremoniously into the air by his left hindpaw.

* * *

The village poured out of the meetinghouse, happy to be out in the early spring air now that the prayer meeting was done. The day was fine and clear, and the snow nearly all melted, with only a few patches left in shade. Although this made the ground muddy, the sight of greenery and blue skies, together with their spiritual reflections on the Resurrection, lifted everyone's moods.

Though some were less sedate than others.

"Motheeeeeer," Jackson Frost pleaded, chomping at the bit, "can we please go look for eggs now?"

Anne Frost smiled serenely down at the ten-year-old. "Do you think Phillipa's old enough this year?"

"Two!" Phillipa thrust one chubby hand into the air, with two fingers held aloft. "Bunny! Hophop!"

"Well." They reached their doorstep. Anne Frost opened the small cabin's front door and reached within, pulling out the two small, rough-made baskets she'd left stacked by the door. "I suppose, _if_ you keep an eye on your sister, and _if_ you stay with the others, and _if_ you don't go too far...."

"Yes?" Jackson was almost dancing from foot to foot, eager to get away.

"Then you may go hunt eggs."

"Eggs!" Phillipa cheered, reaching up for her basket.

"Back by midday," Anne warned her eldest.

"Yes, mother!" Taking his sister by the hand, Jackson hurried off in the direction of the other waiting children.

* * *

"Bloody gumdrops!" The sun had risen and Bunnymund found himself danging ten feet above the ground. Even as he growled, though, and seethed about the damage to his day's schedule, he had to admire the artistry of a mind that could set a trap that would catch _him_.

...Oh, if North ever found out about this, Bunny would _never_ hear the end of it.

Pulling himself up along the trapped leg, Bunny took a knife from his bandolier and made a quick slash through the rope. Catlike, he twisted to land on his feet. He pulled the snare off his ankle and examined it. "Hemp, local make," he murmured to himself. Then he froze, ears twitching.

Children's voices, coming this way.

Dropping the rope, he bounded away, hiding in the forest's shadows like a ninja.

Mere moments later, half a dozen village children, practically scrubbed to shining, came running down the path. The lead boy, brown-haired, was clearly heading for the bush by which Bunny had been neatly caught.

"Eggs!" cheered the small girl behind him, going for her own target.

The boy, though, looked up at the rope dangling from the branch overhead. His mouth pursed and he set down his basket. Almost as quick and nimble as a squirrel, he scaled the tree and scooted out along the branch. He pulled the rope up hand-over-hand.

"Jack?" called one of the other boys.

Jack examined the end of the rope. His eyes widened. "This was cut!" he called down to them. He unfastened the rope, coiled it over his shoulder, and returned to the ground. The little girl was contentedly examining her eggs, having carefully placed them one by one in her basket.

"I told you, he always places eggs here!" Jack told the others. "So I set a trap for him."

Bunny's eyes widened. _That kid_ set a trap that had caught him?

"Where's the rest of the rope?" Jack asked. "It must be around here somewhere." He and the others started looking.

_Right,_ Bunnymund thought. _If I'm getting predictable enough that he knows where I'm leaving eggs, clearly it's time to shake things up next year._

"Jack, here it is!" One of the other boys held up the remainder of the rope.

Jack took it, examined it closely. Pulled something out from between the cords. Held it up to the light. Grinned. "Rabbit fur," he said. The other children, except for the little girl, crowded close. They shared his grin.

Bunny groaned, and placed his hand over his face, shaking his head.

"Gentlemen, ladies," Jack announced, "thus do I present you all proof: the Easter Bunny is real!" He accepted their applause with a gracious bow, then placed the rope in his basket, and took the young girl by hand, presumably leading her off further on their egg hunt.

Bunny was way behind schedule now, but he couldn't help but stay long enough to watch the gaggle of children depart. "That kid," he murmured to himself, in the shadows, "is going to be trouble one day."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Trying to google a date for a pre-1752 holiday is an interesting exercise, because of the adoption of the Gregorian calendar. The Julian calendar, which is what Britain and its colonies were using previously, was slowly drifting out of synch with the seasons; when they moved to the Gregorian calendar in 1752, there was a nine-day shift. So Easter in 1704 can be dated either on April 8th (by our modern calendar) or on March 28th (by the calendar they were using then). And to boot, the year used to start on Lady's Day, March 25th, rather than our modern January 1st. What fun!

I highly, seriously doubt that Bunny ever let ANYONE know that he'd been caught by a ten-year-old. He is a very prideful character, after all. Which leads me to wondering what Jack would do with this knowledge in present day, post-movie. And how Bunny would react to realizing _Jack_ was the kid who'd caught him. (Since, at the end of the film, Jack is the only one who knows who he used to be....) We'll see if the story materializes or not. In the meantime, feel free to imagine your own scenarios!


	4. Making Lists

December, 1711

Trumpets and toy soldiers, boats and balls, dolls and dancing ladies... Nicholas St. North went down the requests list, smiling gently. He could not fulfill all the wishes, but each good child would get at least something from their hopes and dreams. He had received several requests in writing, even. It seemed letters to Father Christmas were becoming more popular these days! But most of his information on what the nice children of the world wanted came from a more nebulous source: magic.

It whispered in Nicholas' ears as he went down his lists, giving him the names of the children, their locations, their secret wants and needs. He followed as the magic instructed, inscribing the information into his ledgers, notifying the yeti of how many toys of each type he wanted, keeping the sums carefully balanced, and allowing for a five percent overage, as the elves inevitably destroyed some toys in the testing stage.

Those were the red ledger books, and they had place of pride on his shelves, each spine inscribed with its year.

The other books, the black ones, he did not love so well. They were the naughty children, the ones with mean hearts and cruel hands. Though he tried to love them equally, Nicholas... just couldn't quite. He could hope for them, that they would learn better, that maybe _next year_ they would be on the nice list... but so few of them ever made that change.

Fortunately, there were far, far fewer entries in the black books. They were noticeably thinner than their compatriots.

Then there was the blue ledger, which held the names of borderline children. This was the book that occupied Nicholas currently. His quill hovered beside each name as he considered the child, considered what the magic whispered to him. Some had done bad things for good reasons. Some had done good things for bad reasons. And some were simply led astray by the wrong people.

This was the hardest ledger to balance. Nicholas would have given them all a plus-mark, to note their transfer to the red ledger, beside their name, if he could. But he couldn't. That wouldn't be fair.

Finally deciding on little Maria Fromme, who hadn't actually meant to tar her sister's hair, he moved to the next name.

Jackson Frost.

Closing his eyes, Nicholas let the magic whisper to him. The boy had a clever grin that turned sly in a heartbeat. His mind was quick, and too often turned to purposes for his own amusement. He played tricks on the children and adults around him, particularly his younger sister Phillipa. She at least was firmly in the red ledger, good obedient child that she was! But young Jackson, he was a hellion.

Still... there didn't seem to be any malice in him. Curious. Settling back further into his chair, Nicholas continued to listen.

The boy was a leader among his peers. A hard worker. He loved his parents and sister without reservation, and always behaved properly when the situation truly called for it. He made friends, rather than enemies. And, for all the tricks he played on others, he laughed at himself just as often, unashamed to be the butt of his or others' jokes.

And, at eighteen, he still _believed_.

That was a very rare thing.

Opening his eyes again, Nicholas pursed his lips and considered.

One last gift for the boy, then. Next year, belief or no, he would be too old to be on the lists. So best to make this last one something special. But what? Balls and jacks were too childish, and he already had a stuffed toy he treasured. A new book, perhaps? Nicholas considered that, then shook his head. The boy was too active, too outdoorish to find the simple satisfaction so many did in words.

Something that would last for years, be a reminder of that last Christmas....

Nicholas found himself worrying a thumb between his teeth, and hastily removed it. "Jingle!" he called out. Immediately three elves stood at attention. "Milk and cookies," he instructed them. They practically tumbled over themselves to get into one of their hidey-hole tunnels that led to the kitchen.

Something special. Something special....

He stood, walked to the bookshelf, pulled down this year's red ledger, thumbing to Phillipa Frost. He had put down a doll for her, with red-brown hair like her own, but now that he thought about her and her brother more, he felt that they would appreciate something that they could use together. And what eighteen-year-old boy truly wished to play dolls with his sister?

Chewing his thumb again for a second, Nicholas decided. He drew a slash through "doll" and wrote next to it "skates." Returning to the desk, he put a good-child plus-mark next to Jackson, and a notation of skates for the boy as well.

A good big brother like Jackson would enjoy teaching his sister to ice skate, and a good little sister like Phillipa would enjoy learning.

Satisfied, Nicholas moved on to the next name.

* * *

They sat before the fireplace, on the half-log floor that had been rubbed satin-smooth by hand years before, river rocks polishing all the splinters out. Outside the cabin, snow fell softly, building up on the roof and around the building. It insulated, made the two-room structure feel cozy. Inside the cabin, the stone mantel was draped with evergreens, decorated with sprigs of holly and ivy. Salted pork simmered with beans in a kettle pulled slightly off the fire, and a neatly trussed turkey roasted on a spit before the flames. Soon, a skillet of cornbread would be pushed into a cradle of embers.

Most of the presents had already been opened. Jack already wore his new shirt, made of fine, heavy linen. His mother had sewn it, and Phillipa's embroidery adorned the neck and cuffs. His father had received a similar one, cut with the high collar he preferred, but Jack liked more ease in getting his clothes on and off. Phillipa had been given a length of fine indigo wool, to make a new dress, and their mother had gotten a new apron from her children (Jack had saved his coins for the cloth, and Phillipa had sewn it) and a small mirror from her husband.

The pieces of horehound candy, one in each shoe, had been carefully secreted away to last the next several months, and now they were down to the last two gifts, the ones in plain brown wrapping paper, tied with twine.

"On three," Jack said. Phillipa nodded. "One... two... three!"

Their fingers raced at untying the string.

"Ha!" Jack won by mere seconds.

His sister pouted. "No fair! You have bigger fingers than me."

He just grinned. "You first." He nodded at her package.

Phillipa bit her lower lip, then carefully pulled the paper loose.

"Oh my," Anne Frost murmured, as her daughter stared with big eyes.

"Ice skates!" Phillipa squealed.

Jack blinked. "Which means that mine must be...." He unwrapped his own parcel, and found that his intuition was correct: he had received a matching pair of skates.

Phillipa flung her arms around him. "Now you _have_ to teach me to skate!"

"Well," Jack said, glancing out the window, "not today. It's snowing too heavily."

"Not today," Thomas Frost corrected, "because it's the Lord's birthday."

Jack smiled and nodded. "Next week," he promised his sister. "I'll teach you how to skate."


	5. Dreamweaver

January, 1711

The night is his kingdom. Well, his and several others'. Once in a while he catches a glimpse of one of Toothiana's fairies speeding off, either coin or tooth in its grasp. The night is the purview of many spirits; but mostly Sanderson spends it alone. Just himself and the wind and the endless light of the dreamsand.

And the children.

Always the children. He loves them, how beautiful their minds are. What detailed, marvelous, _happy_ creations arise when they are touched by his dreamsand! His own imagination cannot compare, and Sanderson has lived a _very_ long time and knows it to be no exaggeration that he has an incredible imagination. Their creations thrill and delight him beyond measure, and so it is that Sanderson (the Sandman, they call him) follows the night around the globe, always looking forward with delight to what new wonders the children will share with him tonight.

His cloud sails now above a winter night-dark forest. It gleams white and black under the Man in the Moon's watch, snow and shadows each in their turn. Ahead, there is the faintest golden gleam of firelight. A village. Sanderson tries to remember when he last visited this place, but cannot. He shrugs. There are children here, he knows that. He can feel their innocent hearts, their clever minds, reaching out, yearning for the depth of dreams his sand brings.

Smiling, he obliges, spinning out golden streams of it to journey to the sleeping children below. He watches the dreamsand drift and swirl, never quite blown by the wind, but not entirely cut off from it, either. It loops in graceful arabesques, dives and swoops like a swan or a dancer, and finally finds its way to each sleeping mind, whether through a window or sneaking in under a door. Relishing the moment, Sanderson waits to see what comes.

...

The euphoria, the delight he usually finds in the dreaming minds... it's simply not there.

Shock and concern show on his face as his cloud dives low, into the village. It's a small place, barely a dozen houses, but each holds at least one child.

And they're all so _unhappy_.

What has happened, Sanderson wonders, to make them like this? He goes from house to house, strengthening the dreams until little faces ease, their rest becoming deeper, more meaningful. Many of the dreams feature a slender young man, a playmate to all the children. He must be someone beloved in this village, Sanderson thinks, and can't help but smile at the dream of the young man teaching a boy how to snare rabbits.

Repairing the broken dreams takes time, but Sanderson is not his compatriots. He has no particular schedule to keep to. He could spend all night here, if the children needed! But this is a small village, and he estimates his work here will be done in half an hour's time.

He comes to the last house and goes through the window like one of the Man in the Moon's beams. There is one little girl here, curled up on her bed, practically cocooned in blankets. Her bed is near the banked fire; he wonders if she has been sick, or merely hates the cold. The dried tears on her face tug at his heart; she has cried herself to sleep, poor child. He spins out a thread of sand, intending to give her comforting dreams.

It dissipates as soon as it nears her.

Sanderson straightens, surprised. He spins out another, larger, trying again.

This one takes, and the young man he has seen in the dreams of others soon forms above her head. Sanderson smiles.

Then the dream breaks.

He stares. He has _never_ seen dream rejection like this before. He glances at shadows, seeking answers, but finds none. There are no other forces at work in this cabin tonight; why is the dreamsand not working?

Rolling up his sleeves, a look of determination on his face, Sanderson steps forward. His feet nudge against something not quite tucked under her bed. He glances down. Ice skates! No doubt a gift from North; the fine yeti craftsmanship is obvious. Sanderson admires them, then nods and tries for the girl's dream a third time. This time, however, he doesn't let the sand leave his control completely. He spins a baseline fantasy first, something for the girl's mind to embroider on and improve. A fine winter day, with still skies and crisp air. A pond frozen smooth. The joy of new skates....

Her mind takes over as he steps back. The young man appears, smiling and talking to the girl as he kneels to put on his own skates.

The crack of the ice freezes Sanderson. His hands go to his mouth as he watches the dream--no, a memory, this is Toothiana's purview, not his own--play out. The young man's control, his bravery... the girl's rescue.

And the ice giving way beneath his feet.

The girl jolts awake, screaming a name.

Sanderson steps instinctively out of the way as the girl's parents come running. He notices now the second, empty bed in the dark corner of the room. He wishes he hadn't. He has done nothing good here tonight.

The girl is crying, as she must have been for days now. Her body is exhausted, her spirit too. Sanderson feels guilt and sadness gnawing at him. This is nothing he can fix. It is nothing anyone can fix.

Eventually, he pulls out a small bag that he doesn't often use. It holds a sand that is different from the rest. He rises into the air by the head of the bed and gently blows a puff of it at the girl. She blinks, her sobs quieting, then is asleep within minutes. She will not dream this night, or for many to come. But she will rest, and perhaps she will begin to heal. It is the most he can do for her. Sanderson looks at her parents' faces--grief-stricken, careworn--and follows them back to their own bed. He grants them the same mercy, then leaves as silently and unseen as he came.

His heart heavy, he reforms his sand cloud beneath himself and rises into the air, preparing to leave this place.

But something tugs at him. He has missed a sleeper.

This one is to the north of the village, about a mile away. Sanderson is there in no time at all, but... how curious. There is no house here. No shelter whatsoever. Even the native people, who are much more accustomed to these woods than the villagers, would not sleep outside on a night like this.

He let the tendril of dreamsand guide him to the sleeper.

It is a young man, no, just a boy, really. He is moon-pale and sleeps beside the frozen lake, ice under his head like a pillow, snow drawn over him like a comforting blanket.

He is not a human, and he is so young, so _new_ that Sanderson can still taste the magic of his making.

Aghast, he turns to look at the Man in the Moon.

Manny, though he watches, gives Sanderson no answers.

Shaken, he turns back to the boy. Dutifully, he spins out a thread of sand. It forms a dream above the snow-child's head, and Sanderson watches to see what this child will dream of.

Beautiful frost motifs appear in the dream, and Sanderson does not miss the fact that as they do, as the boy smiles in his sleep, frost snakes across the lake ice in identical patterns.

The boy knows flight, it seems, for that too is in his dreams. And light and a village--Sanderson recognizes it as the one from which he has just come. He watches, breathless, as the newly-made, full of the joy of his creation, enters the village.

The dream shatters in despair as the first figure walks through him.

Sandy winces. He, too, knows the feeling of being walked through. It is hollowness, and wrongness, and it is the reason he and so many other spirits prefer to stay off the ground.

The boy beneath him, tears frozen on his face, has not learned this habit yet. But he will. In the meantime, though....

The snow-boy cannot be more than a few nights old. He has not yet learned enough of the world to dream of its pleasures. So Sanderson works with what the child /will/ know. He creates a dream of delicate, dancing snow flurries, of playful winds, of the beauty of the frost and the winter and the moon....

The winter-child smiles, burrowing deeper under his blanket of snow.

Sanderson smiles too, bittersweet and sad, and leaves the child dreaming. His cloud rises into the air. He leaves the village of sadness, and the newborn spirit of winter, behind him, as close to happiness, or at least as best content, as he can manage.

He does not know when his path will bring him this way again, but he makes a note for himself to check in now and again on that snow child. The world is a harsh place, even for spirit children, and it is his task to ease that as best he can.

Sailing on into the night, the Sandman continues his work.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I forget to mention, sometimes - this entire series has been edited by my Wonderful Husband. ^_^ And, yes, this is nearly a direct follow-on from the last chapter. The year here is not wrong; until 1752, the new year started in March. Whether or not Sandy realizes that the new-born spirit sleeping in the snow is the same young man from the village who drowned, I do not in fact know. He maybe _should_... but Jack looks younger while sleeping.


	6. Seabound

May, 1823

Jack laughed, flying above the surface of the seeming endless northern sea. He dipped closer, letting his fingers skim the water, forming sea ice as he went. A thin, zig-zagging line of it trailed behind him now. He kicked higher for a moment, looking back at his path. With a wave of his staff, accompanied by a flurry of snowflakes, the thin ice thickened, grew broader and deeper. He reversed direction, flying back over the ice, fingers this time skimming along its frozen surface. Frost flowers bloomed in the wake of his touch.

He flew up into the air, high enough to see the entire pattern he had drawn.

From a few hundred yards up, the ice formed an outline, a sketch of a tree with winter-bare arms.

"Not bad," Jack said. "Just needs a little... huh?"

A dark form appeared below the open water in the center of his design, its back breaching the surface momentarily. A spray of water puffed into the chill air, followed by the brief appearance of a flat tail fin, then the creature disappeared back into the murky depths.

Considering the size of Jack's drawing, the creature had to have been nearly as big as a ship.

His eyes felt as big as saucers. "What was _that_?" Jack asked no one in particular. The wind, even if it had known what the creature was, wasn't really capable of giving him an answer.

As if to answer his question, another creature surfaced, and another and another....

Abandoning his drawing, Jack followed them.

There were eight of the creatures, he figured out, two smaller than the others. Baby whatever-they-weres, he guessed. They swam and they dove, and when they dove they went so deep he lost track of them until they surfaced again for another puff of air.

And then one surfaced, nearly its whole body coming upright out of the water before it fell back down with a huge, wave-inducing crash.

Wiping the sea spray off his face, Jack laughed, delighted, and watched as the others did it too, again and again.

He ended up following the gray whale pod for nearly a week.

* * *

Not all of the sea creatures were so fun, though. In certain areas, Jack found, if he hovered too close to the surface, the big mean fish with lots of teeth would jet up under him, breaching the surface, trying to eat him.

He did _not_ like the sharks, and learned where they were likely to be.

It wasn't just the sharks who did that, either. The black-and-white whales would do it too, which confused him since most of the other whales he watched didn't seem to eat anything as far as he could tell. But the black-and-whites had teeth, and he saw them rend seals in half sometimes.

So he stayed far clear of the surface when the orcas were near, though they were still interesting to watch.

His favorite sea animals, though, he didn't see as much of, because they didn't often come where the water was cold enough for ice to form. They were toothy creatures as well, but they weren't _that_ much bigger than Jack, so they didn't look at him as a potential food source. Instead, they sometimes surfaced nearby while he perched on an iceberg. Their heads bobbing above the water, bodies turning so first one black eye then the other regarded him, they chattered, high-pitched squeaky sounds that Jack felt sure were actual words, if only he knew how to understand them.

When they moved, they jumped like streaming ribbons, riding the waves and the water like he rode the winds. Jack flew along the sea after them, because he could not dive beneath the surface to follow them. He thought about it once, but something inside him quailed at the thought of the cold and the dark waiting under the water. But the dolphins... they were playful. Together, they had a grand time: Jack would make them ice floes and hoops and any number of fantastic floating shapes. And the dolphins would treat his creations like a playground, jumping over and through the ice, dancing in air and water in a way that made him laugh and whoop, following them as best he could.

Like the wolves back home in Burgess, the dolphins sometimes let him touch them. Their damp skin was cool and rubbery, strange to the touch, and their breaths smelled of fish. They were his seabound playmates.

Jack loved the dolphins.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Just a thought on the fact that when Jack touches Sandman's dreamsand, he gets dolphins. With a gratuitous reference to my other RotG story The Wolves of Winter.


	7. Egg Hunting and Trapping, Redux

March 31st, 2013

Bunnymund popped out of his hole, looking around Burgess suspiciously. But the air was mild. He sniffed. No scent of snow. A few bounds took him deeper into the park.

Jack's pond was thawed. Not even the slightest skim of ice drifted on its surface; instead, a few early ducks bobbled there. As Bunnymund watched, one disappeared beneath the surface, tail feathers alone remaining visible, as it hunted for something in the mud near the edge.

Bit by bit, Bunnymund relaxed. "Looks like Frostbite kept his word," he murmured to himself. He spared a moment to wonder where the kid was - up north, bothering North, maybe? - but then shook the thought off and got to work.

He had eggs to hide.

* * *

Jamie resisted the urge to giggle. He was going to get in _so much trouble_ for this! Maybe even on North's Naughty List. But some things, as Jack said, were worth it.

"Shh," Jack breathed in his ear from their hiding place. "He'll hear you, with those long ears. Breathe quiet."

Jamie tried to obey, keeping himself still and camouflaged and trying not even to twitch. And, of course, as soon as he thought that, his nose started itching. He tried to ignore the itch, and mostly failed.

Jack saw the way Jamie was contorting his face, trying to deal with the itch without moving to scratch it, and grinned widely, his expression one of hilarity. He looked like he was barely keeping _himself_ from laughing aloud. Jamie glared.

Shrugging apologetically, though he didn't stop smiling, Jack nudged his staff into range, and took his hand off it. Jamie gratefully rubbed the side of his nose against the gnarled wood, relieving the itch.

All of a sudden, Jack tensed. Jamie stilled, and followed Jack's gaze.

He saw nothing at first, but then, after a moment, he saw movement in the shadows.

Their quarry bounded into the park.

_Be still,_ Jamie thought to himself. _Be still!_

He kept his mouth shut, hardly dared breathe as the Easter Bunny paused, looking around suspiciously.

Bunnymund took a step forward. He leaned down and a couple eggs hopped out of his basket and scurried into the grass under a tree. He took another step. Then another.

_Come on,_ Jamie thought. _One more step. Just one more. Please!_

He looked at Jack, whose gaze was locked on those furry gray ankles. Blue eyes sparkled.

Then Bunnymund took that last step.

* * *

"Crikey!" Bunnymund was hauled into the air by his left hind paw.

Eggs pattered to the ground. They stood in a circle, looking up at him as he swayed in the air, upside down and ten feet above the ground.

Boyish, childish laughter pealed through the park.

Twisting in the wind, Bunnymund glared down at the pair of figures that scrambled out from under concealing bushes.

"Frost..." he growled.

Jack took a bow. "And that, Jamie," he said cheerfully, "is how you catch a rabbit."

"You'd better start running now," Bunnymund warned the winter spirit. "Because when I catch you...."

"Oh, come on." Jack leaned on his staff. "You weren't this pissed last time, were you?"

Bunnymund blinked. "Last time?"

"Last time?" Jamie echoed, looking up to the older child.

Jack smirked. "Unless you want to claim that was some other rabbit that cut my snare, three-hundred-some-odd years ago?"

Three hundred...?

Bunnymund's eyes widened.

"I mean, you got away before we even got out of the prayer meeting and came looking, right?" Jack continued.

"That was _you_?" Bunnymund asked. Not possible. He couldn't believe it. Except....

He craned his neck, looked up at the snare.

_Identical_ to the one that had caught him, all those years ago.

He dropped his head again, eyes closed, and groaned.

"Bunny?" Jamie's voice was worried.

He opened his eyes. "Don't start taking after him," he warned the upside-down child. "Nothing good comes of hero-worshiping someone like Frost."

"Hey!" Jack sounded offended. Good.

With a narrow twist, Bunnymund cut through the rope and fell to the ground, landing upright in the middle of the circle of his eggs. He lowered his basket; one after another, the eggs scurried to jump back in. "So," he asked Jack conversationally, "how old were you?"

Jack grinned. "Ten."

Ten?! Bunny mentally groaned again.

"You tell North," he warned, "and I'll make sure you never have another peaceful night again. Either of you."

Jack hissed. "Bringing Sandy into this is low."

Bunny smirked. "So is bringing in North." With a nod, he directed one of the eggs back out of the basket. The blue egg, decorated with fern-like patterns that Bunny would never admit had been inspired by Jack's frost, ran over to Jamie and hopped up and down. The boy, still dusty, with bits of bracken clinging to his sweatshirt, picked it up. "Happy Easter," Bunnymund said, and tapped his foot on the ground, opening a tunnel. He had a schedule to keep, and a lot more places to hide some eggs.

As he jumped down into the tunnel, he heard Jamie Bennett calling after him "Thank you! Happy Easter!", together with Jack's "Happy Easter, Bunnymund!" before the tunnel closed back up.

As he bounded on to his next stop, Bunny couldn't help but keep thinking, _Ten._

_No wonder the Man in the Moon had his eye on Jack...._

* * *

**Author's Note:** This chapter is thanks to the Guest on fanfiction.net who left a comment on chapter three saying they could see Jack replicating his Bunny-trap post movie. So could I, so here it is! :) As for timeline, my headcanon is that though the movie was released in November 2012, it actually depicts the events of April 2012. And, from this point out, the chapters aren't necessarily going to be linear anymore.


	8. Lost Boys

October, 1910

Jack was in London, his toes curling around the very edge of the clock tower roof at the Palace of Westminster, plotting his icy dance through the city, when he saw the boy.

It wasn't that the boy was clad only in leaves. Nor was it the fact that he was only a really little boy, out at night. No, what caught Jack's attention was the way that the boy swooped through the air, diving and laughing with as much glee as Jack himself did.

He couldn't help it. He stared for a moment, as the laughing boy soared past the clock face. "Huh, how about that?" Jack asked himself, a grin stealing across his face. He leapt off the roof, and flew after the smaller boy.

The other kid was _fast_ and had the advantage of knowing where he was going. Jack almost lost him a few times when the boy dipped down low into the warren of London's streets. But he inevitably flew higher again. Between that and the odd bit of golden light that flitted around the boy, Jack managed to find him again each time.

Eventually, the flying boy landed on a residential rooftop, quite near to the edge, and leaned down to peek in the window below. The golden light flickered about him, but now he batted it off impatiently.

Jack cocked his head to one side and landed lightly behind the boy. Keeping quiet, never quite touching the actual roof, he moved forward, curious to see what had the child's interest.

"--and then the clock stuck midnight. Once, twice, three times it chimed before Cinderella noticed..." a woman's voice said from inside the window.

Jack grinned and knelt down beside the boy. "Listening to fairy tales?" he asked.

The boy's reaction was instantaneous. He yelped, jumping away and drawing a sword on Jack all in the same movement.

Jack held up his hands. "Hey, easy," he said. "I just wanted to see what you were up to. I'm Jack Frost."

Large eyes regarded him for a moment, then the boy nodded, his sword lowering. "Peter Pan."

"Come here often?"

Peter nodded. "The lady here tells stories. I tell them to the other boys."

"Other boys?" Jack stood up slowly. Rather fond of not being skewered, he didn't want the boy to feel threatened.

"The lost boys."

"Lost boys," Jack repeated to himself. "Guess I'm kind of a lost boy, too."

Peter brightened up at that, sheathing his sword. He grinned, and his baby teeth gleamed like pearls. Then the expression disappeared. "You sure you're not too old?" he asked suspiciously.

"Cross my heart and hope to die," Jack promised, fingers making said gesture over his heart. Peter's little light thing spun circles around Jack several times, then went back to flitting around the leaf-clad boy. "What is that?"

"Tinker Bell. She's my fairy."

Jack's eyebrows rose. "I've never met a real fairy before." Doffing an imaginary cap, he bowed low. "It's my pleasure to meet you, Miss Bell."

The flitting light seemed to pause for a moment, then came over to hover in front of Jack. Straightening, he slowly extended a hand toward her, palm up.

The fairy landed on his hand.

She weighed no more than a snowflake. Now that she was not flitting about, Jack could see her clearly. She was a slightly plump girl, no bigger than his hand, clad in an exquisite gown made from a skeleton leaf. She was quite beautiful, really, and had translucent wings that would have made the vainest damselfly jealous. She said something, in the loveliest tinkling of golden bells. Then she was gone, flying by Peter again.

Below them, the nursery light went out, and only the night-lights remained.

Peter scowled. "You've made me miss the end of the story!"

"Sorry," Jack said. Seeing how Peter was mortally offended, though, he scrambled for a peace offering. "I can tell you another story, if you'd like."

Peter's expression was mulish for a moment, but then it softened. "What kind of story?"

"The best kind," Jack promised. "A true one."

"All right."

He thought about it for a second. "Once upon a time," Jack started, because that was how all fairy tales started, "there was a lake in winter. It was all cold and frozen. And the moon shone down on it, and decided to make a boy. It carved him out of ice and lake water, and pulled him up into the night air. He looked up at the moon, and it was so bright that he wasn't scared of the dark."

"Then what happened?" Peter demanded.

Jack smiled. "Then the boy found out what the moon made him to do." He leaned on his staff, leaned forward. "The moon made the boy so that there would always be someone to bring winter," he whispered, like he was telling a secret. Jack raised his hand to his lips and blew across it.

Snowflakes blew into existence, surrounding Peter Pan and Tinker Bell. Fat, white, and fluffy, they drifted in the slight breeze. Wide-eyed, Peter raised his face to the sky--

\--and laughed in delight.

Jack and his new friend played tag through the London night, Jack bringing the first snowfall of the year. Peter played in the snow, making snowmen and snow forts and having snowball fights with Jack. It was nearly dawn by the time Peter stopped, making one last angel in a churchyard. "Time to go," he said, rising into the air.

Jack followed him for a bit, looking down in pleasure on the newly-white city. Peter paused, though, in Whitechapel, then dove down to the streets. Jack hovered, unsure if he was wanted, as Peter--

Oh.

As Peter approached a small, still form in an alley. "Hullo," Peter said, and Jack could _see_ the moment the beggar child's spirit stepped away from its old body. "Would you like to come with me? I can show you the way, just for a bit."

Spirit and child and fairy rose into the air, and when they passed Jack by, there was no more recognition in Peter's eyes.

Jack hovered there, for a long time, watching as they flew into the rising sun, until finally the light was too bright for even his eyes.

He saw Peter again, from time to time, and always made sure to play with the eternal infant. Jack wasn't sure just what Peter was, but there was no harm in him; the boy was gay and innocent and heartless in a way only children could manage. And if Peter never remembered Jack... well, Jack always remembered him.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Based very much on the book of Peter Pan, not any of the film versions. As for Jack's more positive attitude here than in the movie as to why the Man in the Moon made him... I figure he's had ups and downs over the centuries, and finding another child who could see him, even if that child was a spirit like Peter, probably was a bit of an upswing. Unfortunately, Peter is chiefly self-concerned, and forgetful, so Jack may well have hit a corresponding low shortly thereafter. Edited by my Wonderful Husband.


	9. Truths and Truths

June, 2062

Jack was pinned. Literally, which made him almost want to giggle, though he knew that was the heatstroke getting to him. And his hands hurt _so damn much_ with Pitch's two black rods rammed through them, through the slate and the shale, anchoring Jack into something deep and dark in the Earth.

 _Crucified,_ a part of him thought, and wondered if Pitch was familiar with Christian symbology. Because Jack was, and was taking it as a sign of hope. Jesus had risen again after his crucifixion....

Of course, if Jack's muddled thoughts went their full course, there was death involved first, and he wasn't looking forward to that. He remembered when Sandman had died, and how Sandy had reluctantly admitted later just how much being unmade _hurt_. Down to the core of your being, in a place that mortals couldn't even know....

Jack panted in the midday sun, wondering if the ringing of swords nearby was only his fevered imagination. Though as far as hallucinations went, a rescue party was a good one. He liked that one.

Except now Pitch was back, shadowy gloating bastard. And how utterly unfair was it that while Jack was suffering from the heat, the Fear King wasn't even flinching from the uncompromising sunlight?

He resolutely ignored the trickle of fear as he felt his cold, his essence, being leached away by the long black rods, feeding something unnatural in the bowels of the Earth. Pitch had threatened a new ice age.

_Sandy survived being unmade. Sandy survived being unmade. Sandy survived--_

"Oh, but being unmade isn't what you really fear, now is it, Jack?" Pitch's velvet voice murmured in one ear. "No, that's such a childish thing. Enough faith, and you can come back from that."

"Fuck. Off," Jack managed.

Pitch moved to his other side. "We all know what your fears are, don't we, Jackie? _Being alone again_ , I suppose." He stood, rocked back on his heels, one long gray finger on his chin as he watched the battle beyond.

Jack craned his neck to look at Pitch, then at the fighters. North and Tooth, both with golden swords flashing, against a dozen Pitch copies.

When he found out who had taught Pitch the trick of splitting himself into copies, Jack was going to make them _pay_.

Where were Bunny and Sandy?

"Oh, don't worry about them, Jack." Pitch smiled, and it was not a pleasant thing. "They're merely taking... a little nap." He dropped to his knees again as a little more of Jack slipped away into the ground. "They're all rather irrelevant to my plans anyway. I'm just keeping them busy until I get what I want." His smile now was downright malevolent, and it chilled Jack down to places that had never felt cold. "You see, I was telling you the truth that time. Nothing goes together better than cold and dark. And if I can't have Jack Frost...." A finger tilted Jack's chin. "Why, then, I'll just have to have his powers."

Jack gritted his teeth, reached for his power. It snapped and crackled around him, _biting_ Pitch's fingers, freezing the air and the ground--

\--and was ripped away into the Earth, leaving Jack gasping and hollow.

"Such a little fighter," Pitch crooned, cradling his injured hand. "Too bad for you, Jackie--"

He stopped, a golden scimitar at his throat. "Release Jack," North said in that too-calm voice that meant Pitch's immediate unmaking if the demand wasn't fulfilled.

Jack had no problem visualizing North's past as a Cossack bandit king.

"Why, certainly," Pitch said, even as Jack arched, feeling another part of himself get torn away, funneled _downward_.

Tooth's swords crossed Pitch's neck from behind. "No stalling," she hissed, tone absolutely venomous.

Pitch sniffed, seeming put out, then waved a hand. The black rods dissolved into smoke. Jack gasped at the pain that throbbed anew through his palms, fever now pulsing with his heartbeats as the wounds began to seep. It racked through him, like all he was made of was agony. With half a whimper his only voice, he curled into a ball, fighting off the pain.

Tooth glared. "You monster," she hissed, and dropped beside Jack. Her hand touching his arm was almost more than he could bear.

"Go away, Pitch," North grated, "before we make sure you can never put yourself back together."

"Oh so melodramatic," Pitch intoned. "Tell me, North, do you know what the brat really fears?"

Held together by pain like it was barbed wire, Jack couldn't even move to try to stop the man's words.

"What he really fears," Pitch said, "is you knowing. Did you know he drowned, North? Ice skating in winter, such a pity. His little sister watching. Both wearing skates _you gave them_."

North's sword fell.

With a triumphant grin and echoing laugh, the Fear King dissolved into smoke and shadow, disappearing on the wind.

Tooth stared at North, then looked back at Jack. Her mouth was open in horror.

It was at that point that Bunny arrived, opening a tunnel by them. And, mercifully, his careful handling was just rough enough that Jack passed out before any questions could be asked.

* * *

Jack woke an indeterminable amount of time later. His eyes fluttered open, and he recognized the room North kept for him at the Pole. It was pleasantly cool, carved of packed snow, with large ice-glass windows that opened to the Arctic. The furniture was wooden, as was the floor, for the rare occasion Jack had a visitor. There were blue-green rugs, posters and pennants pinned to the walls, and the comfiest bed Jack had ever slept in. There was also his staff, propped reassuringly in the corner.

 _Oh good. Wonder where they found it?_ Pitch had been very careful to not keep it with him, once he'd trapped Jack.

A realization of his freedom from pain was Jack's second thought, though he amended that to a general soreness as he sat up. And his hands... well, considering they were swathed in bandages, he wasn't sure he really wanted to know how bad they were.

Wincing, he stood, and went to collect his staff.

The Workshop was its usual scene of controlled chaos. Jack leaned on his staff, watching for a few minutes, taking it in. It was familiar, comforting. Eventually, though, he sighed. Part of him wanted to go outside, into the cold and snow, to replenish what Pitch had stolen from him...

...but there was something more important he needed to do first.

He found Phil easily. "Where is he?" he asked the yeti. There was no need to specify who "he" was.

"Arglbargl," Phil replied, which was pretty much what Jack had thought.

"Thanks," Jack said, and began making his slow, laborious way to North's private quarters.

He knocked first, then, when he got no answer, pushed the door open.

North sat slumped in a chair in front of the fire. His eyes were bleary, and as Jack watched, he downed a shot of a clear liquid, then poured himself another. About half the liquid didn't make it into the tumbler.

Sighing, Jack shut the door behind himself and walked forward. He swiped the bottle from North's hand, noting how many others were scattered, empty, on the floor. Spotting a bottle of Tooth's nectar wine among them, he winced. "I didn't want you to know," he said softly.

"Is no good," North said, staring at the fire. "I think I do good thing, giving gifts to children. When instead I cause them to die!" He saluted the flames with his cup, then tossed the drink back. "I am failure, as Guardian."

"It's not your fault," Jack said. "It's what Pitch does. He twists everything, gets inside your head, screws you up. You _know_ that, North."

"Does not mean he does not tell the truth." North stared at the fire for a moment longer, then lifted his head to look at Jack. "Was my fault. I gave you skates."

"It was _my_ fault," Jack countered. "I should have checked the ice better."

"If not for me, you would have grown up, lived full life. Little sister would have been happy."

"You're saying I haven't lived a full life?" Jack gestured with the hand holding the bottle of yeti vodka. "I stand here, in the most wonderful place on Earth, arguing with Santa Claus. I'm a Guardian! What about that isn't a full life, North?"

"No wife," the man said brokenly. "No children. No family."

"I don't need a wife. And I have all the children in the world to play with. Family?" Jack laughed, just a little. "What do you think you _are_ , North? You're my family. All the Guardians are."

"But--"

"But nothing. Look, you gave me skates. I was stupid. But for all that, something good came of it."

"And other children?"

Jack shook his head. "Mistakes happen. Accidents happen. We can't protect children from life, North. We can only give them those things that make it worth living."

North looked at him for a moment longer, then closed his eyes, dropping his head into his hand. "Very much wisdom, for one so young, Jack."

Jack grinned. "Hey, I learned from the best." Now that he was sure it wasn't going to get drank from more, he set the bottle on the table by North's side. "Come on, let's get you to bed to sleep this off."

North had nearly a foot and a half on Jack, and was built like an iceberg. Getting him up out of the chair was a three-way argument with gravity and leverage. But eventually Jack prevailed, and they stumbled off like a three-legged race to the bedroom.

Jack saw North deposited on the mattress, wrestled off his boots, put a basin near his head just in case, and draped a red blanket over the man. As he went back to the door, North spoke.

"Jack." Jack stopped and turned, looking back. "Even if it took something terrible happening... I am so glad you are here."

Jack smiled gently. "So am I, North."

Closing the door behind himself, Jack slipped from North's quarters, and went back to the Workshop, to let the yetis know that everything was all right.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Yes, chapter four comes back to bite. As it was always planned to. And, yes, Tooth's nectar wine is a reference to my story "Hearth and Home," though this is not in the same universe. No Mrs. Claus here to talk North out of drinking himself insensible (or at least trying). Things I learned in the course of writing this chapter: North has an incredibly high alcohol tolerance. Russian + centuries of drinking with yeti = can handle even Tooth's nectar wine with relative impunity. Jack, by contrast, still chokes on a single shot glass of regular vodka, let alone the stuff the yetis make. :)


	10. Stille Nacht

December, 2012

It was past ten in the woods of Burgess. Jack knew this because the children had been called home from their play, because the church bells had chimed it so, because the lights of the houses had started to go out as even the adults go to sleep. Sandman's dreams had come and visited, and then the other Guardian, with a wave to Jack, had moved on, chasing the night.

It was quiet.

Jack sat perched comfortably in a tree, his back to the trunk, his legs stretched out along the branch, crossed at the ankles. He could, he thought, catch the wind and fly on, to somewhere that children were awake, waiting to play, but for just now he was comfortable. He was content. And he was dreaming up ways to ice the pond and woods, to decorate the trees and the eaves of houses, to sweep snow across all of Burgess so that the town would wake tomorrow to his specialty: a snow day.

But that would only take a couple hours, and this chill December's night was fine and clear. Peaceful.

He didn't even think as he opened his mouth to sing.

* * *

Burgess in winter wasn't quite as cold as the North Pole (unless Frostbite was in a bit of a strop; then all bets were off), but it was still chill enough to make Bunnymund shiver when he existed the comforting warmth of his tunnel.

For a minute, he thought about abandoning the stupid idea and returning alone to the Warren, but Tooth had had a point. He needed to extend the furry paw of friendship to the kid _outside_ of a crisis situation, because heavens knew Jack Frost wasn't going to come looking for Bunnymund on his lonesome.

So he was here, searching for the winter spirit in the place the kid called home, with the intention of inviting him back to the Warren to try some new chocolate samples Bunny'd whipped up. He needed a second opinion, he told himself. Tooth was useless, with her delicate shuddering horror of sweets; Sandy was working and not a chocolate fan anyway; North would just laugh and in his booming, pompous voice suggest peppermint.

Frostbite, however... well, Bunny had seen how jealously he guarded his mugs of hot chocolate from North's horde of thieving elves. So he was willing to try and bond with the kid over sweets.

He moved as quietly as he could through the woods, which was to say, very quietly indeed. There were slumps of old snow here and there, and delicate silver and white traceries on every tree Bunny passed. Definitely Jack's work.

Then he heard it, and stilled.

A clear sweet voice drifted through the air, caught just on the edge of Bunny's hearing. His ears twitched; he triangulated its source automatically.

The sound was eerie and husky and more than a bit hypnotic. He couldn't _not_ follow the voice deeper into the woods.

It was snowing now, Bunny noticed as he stealthed in the direction of the voice. Fat, white flakes drifted down, almost seeming to glow in the moon's light.

Just like that, he realized what the song was. And who was singing it.

"Crikey," he breathed, moving more quietly than ever. He didn't want to interrupt this; he wanted to see it with his own eyes.

He finally reached the clearing around Jack's lake, and there, perched up in a tree, one leg dangling and the other stretched out along a branch, was Jack Frost. He glowed in the moonlight, and the expression on his face was one Bunnymund had never seen before. He could only describe it as "beatific."

* * *

Three hundred years of winter, and Jack Frost knew the lyrics to every Christmas carol ever sung. At times he'd gotten mightily sick of them, but he always cycled back to liking them again. Joining his voice in chorus with carollers or a choir was one of the ways he'd tried to fool himself over the centuries, to feel like part of a crowd.

He'd gotten pretty good at singing by now, and he'd always liked "Silent Night." But tonight, the line about glories streaming from heaven brought to mind Sandy, and the one about radiant beams made him think of the Man in the Moon. He was pretty sure that wasn't good doctrine... but then, he hadn't been a practicing Protestant since 1711. At first he hadn't remember that he'd been one, and now, he wasn't sure how to reconcile what he knew of the world with what he'd been taught then.

Maybe... maybe Jamie could help him with that.

In the meantime, Jack let the notes spill liquid from his throat. In the end, the song was about thankfulness, and he was that. So if he took some time to figure out what it meant to him, well, no one else was here. And only Manny knew he did this once in a while.

A minute after the song ended, someone said, "That was downright nice, Frostbite."

Jack froze.

Then he made himself relax. Bunnymund came out of where he'd hidden himself in the shadows. Listening. Curse his long ears.

"Been there long?" The question was inane, but Jack couldn't exactly take the last five minutes back. He'd heard the Groundhog could, but he'd never actually met the rodent, so popping over into his burrow and asking for favors wasn't an option.

"Awhile." Bunny examined his nails, then looked back up at Jack. "I wanted a second opinion on some chocolates, and thought you might be interested."

And, okay, Jack had _heard_ about Bunny's chocolate. Rave reviews, even taking into account the hyperbole of ten-year-olds. And he was getting offered free samples? "What do you want?" he asked suspiciously.

Bunny pointed a finger at him, looking offended. "I told you. Opinions. Tooth and North are useless, and Sandy doesn't like chocolate."

Jack blinked. How could anyone not like chocolate? "Are you telling me the Guardians are your only test group?"

"Sadly, yes." Bunny looked away. "Can't trust anyone else with the magic in the chocolate."

And now Jack was in this exclusive little group of people Bunny trusted with his magic? Part of his brain poked the rest and told it not to be stupid. Free magic chocolate! The rest of his brain thought about that, and decided the pokey part had a point.

"Sure," Jack said, and floated down from his tree. "But I need to be back by four. I'm planning an epic snow day for tomorrow." He waved an arm, painting the air. "Schools closed across the entire county."

Bunny rolled his eyes. "I'll get you back in plenty of time. Now come on." A thump of his foot, and a tunnel entrance opened between them. Before he jumped in, though, Bunny smirked. "Nice voice."

Jack spluttered, jumped in after him, and decided he was going to _slushball_ the kangaroo as soon as they were out of the tunnel and into the Warren.


	11. Chapter 11

May, 2016

Four years after their first meeting (or, rather, Jamie first meeting Jack; Jack had apparently known Jamie practically since Jamie was born), Jamie learned something new and unexpected about his Guardian friend.

The winter had lingered a long time in Burgess that year, Jack reluctant to leave the town he called home. But even winter incarnate couldn't defy the turning of the seasons forever, and by now the ice was melting, the snow dissolving, and the chill turning into spring. Which Jamie would never admit aloud he was kind of looking forward to. Summer had no shortage of its own charms and he hadn't been swimming in _months_. But Jamie adored Jack, and didn't want him to leave.

Still... he didn't think staying so long was really good for Jack, either. The winter spirit had been slowing down the last few weeks, seeming to drift off in thought sometimes. Like he was tired.

So when Jamie woke up one morning to find Jack sat curled up on his window seat, eyes closed, only the rise and fall of his chest giving indication of life, he wasn't surprised.

The warm weather had been wiping Jack out.

Jack's shepherd's crook was tightly clenched in icy fingers when Jamie tried to tug it away, so he just shrugged and draped a blanket over Jack. Unfortunately it was a Tuesday, so Jamie had to go to school. By the time he was dressed and closing the bedroom door behind himself, the green blanket had been completely covered in silver-white frost patterns that matched Jack's hair.

* * *

He was surprised when he got back from school and found Jack in the exact same spot he'd been that morning, still fast asleep.

Jamie dropped his backpack on the floor and went over to his friend. He lightly shoved Jack's shoulder, but it got him nothing more than a shift of the sleeping body. "Jack!" He shoved harder. Jack's head flopped against the window. Ice ferns spread across the pane. "Jack, this isn't funny!"

"Jack's here?" Jamie turned as his sister poked her head into his room. "Jack!" she squealed, spotting the winter spirit. She beelined for the window seat. "Jack, wake up!" she said, hugging his leg. When that proved to have no effect, Sophie straightened, blinking up at the sleeping Guardian. She turned to her brother. "Jamie, why's he not waking up?"

"I dunno, Sophie." Jamie frowned. He'd never seen Jack like this before, and he was getting concerned. "I think we need help."

* * *

"I dunno, Jamie," Caleb said. "I have no idea."

"But your dad's a doctor!"

"Doesn't mean _we're_ doctors," Claude replied. Like the rest of them, he was frowning.

"I think... I think we need help," Monty said, nervously adjusting his glasses. "I mean, Jack's magic, right? And none of us are really experts, so...."

"Hmm." Cupcake's brow furrowed in thought. "Anyone have any teeth left to lose?"

There were headshakes all around, except for Sophie. She looked a little wary. "Yes, but you're not knocking them out!"

"My little brother doesn't have any loose teeth either," Pippa said.

Jamie sat down on his bed. "Great. So we can't contact Tooth. And Easter's months away, so Bunny's out too. And Sandy...."

Pippa shook her head. "We'd be asleep before we even knew he was here."

"Which leaves Santa." Claude crossed his arms. "Who we also won't see for months."

"Anyone got a snow globe?" Caleb joked, but it fell flat into the silence.

"Um," Sophie spoke up, "we could write Santa a letter...?"

Startled glances flew around the room. "Sophie, you're a genius!" Jamie declared. He scrambled over Monty's legs, going for his desk. "Go get a stamp from Mom!"

"Okay!" Sophie disappeared out the door as the others crowded around Jamie's desk.

"Dear Santa," Jamie started, hating his handwriting as much as always, "Jack Frost has fallen asleep on my windowsill, and my friends and I can't wake him. Do you have any suggestions? Please help. I hope this letter reaches you before Christmas. Love, Jamie Bennett."

Cupcake frowned. "Remind me never to expect good letters from you."

"No, it's good," Monty said. "It covers everything North'll need to know."

"Got it!" Sophie reappeared in the doorway, holding a stamp in one hand.

"Great." Jamie fished out an envelope from the dusty stack of them at the back of his desk.

Sophie sniffed at him. "Mom thinks it's for you to write Grandma," she told him.

" _Later_ , Soph." Jamie carefully wrote his return address in the upper left corner, then simply addressed the envelope to

_Nicholas St. North, Guardian_  
AKA Santa Claus  
The North Pole 

and affixed the stamp in the upper right corner for postage.

"Post box time," Monty said.

"Closest one's down the block," Pippa said.

Monty spared a look for the sleeping form of Jack Frost in the window. "Do we really want to leave Jack all alone, though?"

Another set of glances flew around their group of seven. "I'll stay," said Cupcake, sitting down on Jamie's bed.

"Me too," said Caleb. "Hey, Jamie, can I raid your comic books?"

"Sure. We'll be right back."

* * *

The five of them stood around the post box expectantly as Jamie tipped its chute open, put the letter in, then closed it.

Nothing happened.

"Well," Claude said, rubbing the back of his head with one hand, "I guess nothing _was_ going to happen right away."

"How long do you think it takes a letter to reach the North Pole?" asked Pippa.

Jamie shrugged. "It takes four days for my grandma in California to get a letter, so... maybe a week?"

"And you're okay with Jack sleeping on your windowsill for another week?" Claude asked.

"Assuming Santa even reads the letter right off," Monty added.

Jamie blinked. Thought about Jack, who was the closest thing he'd ever had to having a brother. "Why wouldn't I be okay?" he asked Claude. "I mean... it's _Jack_."

Grins broke out all around the group at that. "Yeah, that sounds about about right," Claude admitted.

* * *

As it happened, Jamie didn't need to wait a week. He woke up that night in the middle of the night to a thump on his roof. And then another thump, followed by muffled highly accented swearing, from downstairs.

Eyes wide, he threw off his blanket and opened his door, glancing back at the moonlight-silvered frame sitting in his window. Jamie crept down the hall, avoiding the creaky boards, then ghosted down the stairs to see--

"North!" he said delightedly.

The big man spun around. "Jamie!" His arms were wide open for a hug, so Jamie ran into them. He closed his eyes, breathing in North's aroma of peppermint and pine shavings. Then the man was holding him at arm's length, examining. "Getting so big!" he said. "Almost as tall as Jack now, I think."

"Only half an inch to go," Jamie reported, grinning.

"Growing up into fine young man." North nodded. "Now, where is Jack?"

"Upstairs." Jamie preceded Santa. "You got my letter, then."

"Yes. Clever idea, contacting me that way." North was as silent on the steps as Jamie.

"It was Sophie's idea," Jamie had to admit.

"Hmm. Maybe I should leave two of you snow globes, in case of emergency...."

Jamie pushed his door wider open, wincing at its soft creak. North ignored it and went right past him, heading for the figure in the window. As Jamie closed the door, North knelt, pressing a hand to Jack's forehead. "A bit warm," he judged. He looked at Jamie, blue eyes luminous in the dark. "He has been like this how long?"

"He was like this when I woke up this morning." Jamie stepped closer. "Is he... is he okay?"

"Jack is fine. Just pushing it too much." North stood. "Thing about Jack is, he is elemental spirit. Winter! So spring, summer, autumn... they tire him out. He has slept through them sometimes, he has confessed. Hibernating, like bear."

"Oh." Jamie touched Jack's forehead himself. Silver hair wisped over his fingers as he felt Jack's skin. Jack was still cold, but... maybe less so than usual? He looked up at North. "He'll be okay?"

North nodded and gathered the sleeping Guardian into his arms. "I take him back north, toss him in snowbank. He will be up and about again, making mischief, in a week or so."

"You're sure?"

North smiled kindly at him. "Jamie, is natural for Jack. Is like you sleeping at night. Jack will be fine. And... I think I know why Jack did not want to go." He inclined his head.

It took a moment, but Jamie got the implication. He gawped. "Because of _me_?"

North nodded. "You are very special child, Jamie Bennett. Especially to Jack. He loves you like he has loved no other since... well, that was long time ago." He regarded Jamie. "Suffice to say, Jack thinks of you like little brother."

Slowly, Jamie's open-faced expression morphed into a grin. "I love him, too," he confessed. "Jack would be the best older brother ever."

"Is good." North nodded to the door and Jamie scrambled to reopen it. "I take him to Arctic now. Will let you know when he is back to full health. You should probably not expect to see him again until late autumn, though."

Jamie nodded as they came back to the living room fireplace. "Fly safely!"

"Ha!" North laughed. "Me? Fly safely? I think not!" And then he was gone, him and his burden.

Jamie scrambled back up the stairs to his room, throwing the window wide in time to see the sleigh take off from his roof, then disappear a moment later through a colorful snow globe portal. "Awesome," he whispered, grinning wide. Then he closed the window, picked Jack's chilly blanket up off the floor, wrapped himself in it, and went back to bed.

* * *

A week later, Jamie came back from school to find his window ajar and two snow globes on his desk. A note was under them. He picked it up first, recognizing Jack's spidery old-fashioned handwriting. It read,

_Jamie -_

_Sorry for freaking you out by falling asleep on you. And thanks, I guess, for the use of your window seat. I'm back to 100% now and just popping by on my way down to Australia to (1) give them some decent snow coverage, and (2) harrass Bunny. I'll tell you all about it this fall._

_North says the globes are one for you, one for Sophie, and they're for emergency use only. So use them wisely, young padawan!_

_Give my regards to the others, and my love to Sophie. See you in October!_

_Love,_  
your brother,  
Jack Frost 

Jamie felt like his grin was going to split his face. He reread the letter, folded into quarters, and placed it in the back of his underwear drawer. He hid the snow globe next to it, carefully nestling it among his socks.

He wasn't sure Sophie was mature enough to have her own globe yet, but he shrugged. North said one each, and what North wanted, North got. "Sophie!" he called out, and gave her the other globe when she came running.

Then, settling down at his desk, Jamie opened his computer's browser and clicked over to Wikipedia.

He wanted to read up on Australia.

* * *

**Author's Note:** So many others have written lovely stories about the possibility of Jack hibernating during warmer months; this is my go at it. In this, I don't think he always does. In fact, I suspect it's a rare thing for him. But warmth makes him sleepy, so if he doesn't skip out of town when he ought, well, he ends up sleeping in a safe place (this time, Jamie's room) until he's suitably cool again. Also, I figure in RotG'verse, letters addressed to North simply disappear out of mailboxes once they're put inside. :) As always, the story was edited by my Wonderful Husband; I hope you all enjoyed it!


	12. Cheap Candy

April 17th, 2017

The six teenagers and one pre-teen convened at the Bennett house a couple hours after school, each carrying at least one grocery bag stuffed with half-price Easter candy. They spread their loot across the dining room table, organizing and sorting and breaking open one of the bags of jelly beans to start the sugar high. Mrs. Bennett, used to these quarterly gatherings, only rolled her eyes. "Don't make yourselves sick," she warned, and disappeared into the living room with a cup of coffee and a manila folder of investment documents.

"Yes, Mom," Jamie and Sophie chorused in time with everyone else's "Yes, Mrs. Bennett."

"Eww, licorice." Pippa eyed the black jelly bean with distaste, and put it untouched into the reject pile in the center of the table. Sophie fished it out, stuck her gray tongue out at the other girl, and popped the bean into her mouth, chewing noisily.

"Eww," most of the rest of the table said, along with "Gross, Sophie!"

"If I can't be gross when I'm nine, I never will get to be," the youngest member of their conspiracy said sagely.

Her wisdom was interrupted by the crackle of ice spreading across the kitchen windows and door.

Jamie stepped fastest, and flung the door wide open. "Jack!"

The winter spirit stood there, grinning.

"Come in, come in!" Cupcake said.

"We left you a spot," Monty added.

"Awesome." Jack shut the door behind himself, ruffled Sophie's messy blonde hair in passing, and used his staff to rook a chair into the empty spot at the table, right between Jamie and Claude. "So, what's the haul, guys?" His eyes flickered over the table. "Wow. I can hear Tooth fussing from here."

"You get first pick," Jamie insisted.

"Hey, I don't actually want that much," Jack told him. "I just have something in mind for the next Guardians meeting."

Silence spread across the table as the teenagers (and pre-teen) considered what applications of cheap Easter candy might come to Jack's devious mind.

"Okay," Pippa said eventually, "you can't just tell us that and not tell us what you're going to do."

Jack smiled at his friends. "Well," he said, picking up a chocolate bunny in its box. "Hop hop hop," he suggested, making the box's motion suit the words.

"You're pranking _Bunny_?" Caleb's eyes were wide. "Man, you've got a death wish, Jack!"

Jack grinned. "The rabbit can run fast, but he hasn't caught me yet."

"That's 'cause you can fly," Cupcake stated.

"Yeah, but he's got boomerangs. And those things sting if I don't manage to duck them."

"Whatever." Pippa sighed, but she was smiling. "It's your funeral, Jack."

"I solemnly promise to tell you all about it if I manage to pull it off." Jack held up his hand to make the oath.

"Hey." Monty tilted his head. "I've just got to know, Jack... you don't have an allowance like the rest of us. Where do you always get ten dollars to toss in the candy pot?" He glanced at the Bennett siblings. "Jamie and Sophie aren't spotting you, are they?"

"No!" It was hard to tell who looked more affronted: Jack, Jamie, or Sophie. Jack rolled his eyes. "People lose money sometimes. They just drop it on the pavement. If I'm in the area and the wind finds it, it gives it to me. I've got a little lockbox in my room up north, with all kinds of bills from all over the world."

"Um, why a lockbox?" asked Jamie. "I mean, who at the North Pole is going to steal anything?"

Jack made a sour face. "The elves. They try to eat anything that's not nailed down."

* * *

Since Jack's induction into their ranks, the Guardians had taken up having semi-casual business meetings three times a year in addition to North's infamous Christmas Day parties. The meetings were ostensibly to educate the newest and youngest Guardian about their history and duties. In reality, it was just a chance to hang out and talk shop. The spring meeting was set, by tradition, a week after Easti>er, to give Bunnymund some time to come down from his big holiday.

Jack breezed in, literally, last, though not by much. Sandman had only arrived a moment earlier, and Toothiana only a few minutes before him.

The skylight thudded shut as Jack dropped through it. He landed atop the great globe, skated around it once to give a weather-accurate coating of frost on snowy locales, then jumped off, somersaulting through the air to land neatly on his feet in the gathering area before the fireplace.

The elves clapped enthusiastically.

"Showoff," Bunny muttered with no real heat as Sandy toasted Jack's acrobatics with a glass of eggnog.

"Hi, Jack!" Tooth fluttered up in his face. "How have you been? How is Burgess? Did Pippa tell you her brother finally lost that premolar? It's the prettiest thing ever - I bet she's been making him floss!"

"Hi, Tooth," Jack said, used to her hyperactivity by now. He looked at the others. "Who let her into the espresso already?"

Wordlessly, Sandy, Bunny, and North pointed at the elves.

"Joy." Jack unslung his staff from where it had been propped over his shoulder. He plucked the shopping bag off it, then claimed his usual chair, the one furthest from the fire.

"Oh, what's in the bag?" Tooth hovered over him, excited.

Jack laughed. "In a minute, okay? Thanks," he told an elf, accepting a mug of hot chocolate that cooled quickly in his grip. He took a sip, then set it between his knees. "Day-after-Easter candy. Thought I'd bring some up and share with everyone."

"Oh, Jack!" Tooth's eyes were wide. "That will _ruin_ your teeth!"

"Ah-ah," he warned, fishing out a bouquet of lollipops and handing them to the hovering fairy. "Sugar free, just for you. I asked the kids to pick them up special."

Tooth accepted the lollipops like they were the most precious of flowers. She practically seemed to glow. "Oh, Jack."

"And, for your charming helpers...." Jack drew out a box of sugar-free gum.

The attending fairies practically fainted at the gift, and each took one stick, holding it covetously to her chest. Baby Tooth, the most daring, darted in and gave Jack a kiss on the cheek. Then, with a quick glance at Tooth, who was absorbed in examining her lollipops, Jack smirked and held out an array of miniature Cadbury's creme eggs to the fairies. Those disappeared even faster than the gum.

Tooth looked up suspiciously at the tiny squeals of glee, but was distracted by Jack's next offering.

"For Bunny--" Jack lobbed one, two, three larger eggs at the pooka, who caught them deftly. Each turned out to be a different variety. "I thought you'd like to check out your competition."

Bunny snorted. "Like human chocolate's any good."

"Well, if you don't want them...."

Bunny's hands tightened possessively on the eggs. Jack laughed. "For North, a selection," he said, handing the large man a flat box, "and for Sandy, since I know you don't like chocolate, some marshmallow Peeps." The Sandman lit up at the brightly-colored boxes.

"It's so sweet of you to bring, well, sweets, Jack." Tooth had opened one of the lollipops and was delicately licking at it.

"Anytime." Jack withdrew his own small box and stuffed the empty grocery bag in his hoodie pocket. "So, what deep and sordid tale of the past do I get to hear today?"

* * *

They were well into the tale of Bunny first meeting Tooth, Sandy acting out their parts with a yellow Peeps rabbit and a blue Peeps chick, when Jack finally opened his box. He tipped the chocolate rabbit inside into his hand, and just let it sit there, seemingly forgotten, while he listened to the story, interjecting "uh-huh" and "no way!" and "what happened then?" at the appropriate intervals.

He had angled the chocolate just perfectly for Bunny to see its profile. Attuned to his prey, Jack knew the exact second that the pooka realized what the candy was.

Seemingly distracted by the history he was learning, Jack raised the chocolate to his mouth--

\--and bit off the tip of one chocolatey rabbit ear.

Bunny twitched.

Hiding his triumphant reaction of _YES!_ , Jack continued listening.

Another bite got him another twitch. A bigger one earned him a whole-body shudder. By now Bunny wasn't even listening to the story (or, rather, _reading_ it in the symbols flashing above Sandy's head). North was starting to look at the Easter-bringer in concern, though.

Jack went in for the coup de grace.

In one feral snap of teeth, he bit off the chocolate rabbit's head.

"WHAT IN THE BLOODY BLAZES IS WRONG WITH YOU?!" Bunny demanded, jumping up out of his seat.

Jack blinked at him. Then he looked down at the chocolate in his hand. "Um, sorry, did you want some?" he asked, offering the decapitated rabbit to the, well, rabbit.

"You-- You-- Argh!" Bunny threw up his hands and stalked off.

Jack bit back his grin until Bunny was well out of sight, then pumped his fist in the air, doubling over in silent laughter.

Sandy caught on first, enlightenment stealing across his face before he joined in Jack's silent laughter. Then North's booming mirth washed over them. Finally, Tooth broke out in giggles. "Jack, that was... that was so mean!" she laughed.

"You should not be so cruel to Bunny," North admonished through his chuckles.

Sandy only applauded.

"Totally worth it," Jack announced. Then he gave them a fast wave, taking to the air just before Bunny, having heard everything with his long ears, came bounding back into the room with a war-cry of "FROST!"

On the empty seat, the headless rabbit lay abandoned. At least, until the elves got to it.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Story suggested and edited by my Wonderful Husband.


	13. ElectroSwing

November, 2017

The winter spirit dropped from the heavens, laughing and dancing in the wild grasp of the winter wind. He didn't care that certain people (who might be named Bunnymund) thought he was crazy. Traveling with the winds was _fun_! He spun and swooped and brought snow with one part of his mind while the other kept an eye on where he was _going_ , springboarding off buildings, traffic signs, and moving vehicles.

Children cheered and adults cursed in his wake, and the sound of his name yelled by high voices was sweet indeed to Jack. He grinned and waved in passing; he would come back and play with them later. For now, it was his first day back in Burgess in _months_ , and Jack had a first believer/little brother to check up on.

He looked at Jamie's home first, and found their mom's car in the driveway but no Jamie and no Sophie. A quick skip over to Jack's pond ruled that out as well. Next was a drop in at Monty's house, then at Pippa's. Jack finally hit the jackpot when he peeked in the living room windows at the twins' home. His eyebrows raised, though, as he watched Cupcake and Pippa and even little Sophie dancing with the boys in a style Jack hadn't seen for _decades_. Claude was the odd man out, standing to one side and watching. Jack smiled and watched too, frost curling across the windows without his conscious control. He waited until the song was done to knock on a pane.

The resulting mad scramble amused him. He was standing at the front door by the time the horde of mostly-teenagers opened it, drawing him into a warm, loving fourteen-armed embrace.

It was weird, he thought as he was pulled inside and led to the living room, how he used to be the older one. Now they were almost his peers, and someday not too far off, they would all be adults and he'd still be eighteen. Excepting Sophie, they were already all taller than him; Pippa and Cupcake had shot past him a year ago, and now the boys were straggling past _them_. If he was one of their classmates, Jack suspected, it might give him a complex. He'd been of average height when he was alive, but these modern teenagers had never had hungry winters stunting their growth. Their height was their right. On the other hand, if he'd _been_ one of their classmates, maybe he'd have grown taller along with them....

"So," he asked when they were all ensconced in the two sofas and one overstuffed armchair that had been pushed hard up against the walls, "what's with dancing the Charleston?"

The kids exchanged surprised glances, some of them straightening up. "Wait, you know the Charleston?" Caleb asked.

Jack pointed at himself. "Three hundred twenty-three years old," he reminded them. Three hundred twenty-four in a week, he thought, but didn't say, because if he let anyone know, somehow the Guardians would find out, and while he wouldn't mind a party and cake with his human friends, he wasn't sure he wanted one from the Guardians. And they _would_ throw him one. "I was around during the twenties. And dance was fun, even if I couldn't participate with a partner."

Cupcake's eyes narrowed. "How about swing?" she asked. "Forties, fifties."

"Also great stuff," Jack said.

"Hmm."

"So," Jack repeated, ignoring her calculating look, "why the Charleston?"

"Well," Claude began, "we have the Winter Formal coming up next month...."

"Winter Formal?" Jack asked.

"School dance," Pippa told him. "And we want to be able to dance, and Cupcake's been taking lessons, like, _forever_ , so she's trying to teach us...."

"Pippa and me are getting it fastest," Sophie told Jack. She made a face at Jamie. "It's 'coz boys are dumb."

Jamie rolled his eyes.

Cupcake stood, and walked over in front of Jack. "Dance with me," she said, and it was somewhere between a request and a command. While Cupcake was still growing into her looks, she was going to be a goddess one day, and perhaps knew it; she already projected authority like a queen.

Bemused, Jack stood. "Can't promise I'm any good," he said. "I've never danced with anyone else before."

Cupcake nodded in acceptance. "Monty," she told the blond boy, "track two." Monty nodded and pressed a couple buttons on a black device as Jack took Cupcake's hands. Then there was music in the air again.

The beginning notes were easy enough, and Jack remembered how to move his feet. Rock step, triple step triple step, rock step, triple step triple step. He fell into it easily, into the rhythm, and twirled Cupcake.

Then the music stepped up a notch, got inside Jack in a way music hadn't in a long time--

_Do you think you cannot swing?_

\--there were women's voices, and all of a sudden he was remembering moves he learned long ago--

_Everybody loves that thing!_

\--things he'd taught himself out of boredom and envy, things that he'd never done with a living partner.

_Look that girl - she lose control!_

Cupcake floated like silk in wind, following Jack's every motion with a grace that came of training.

_Push the trigger, free your soul!_

Jack was totally lost to the dance--

\--and then the music ended and he was back to himself, standing barefoot in Claude and Caleb's living room, Cupcake in front of him, breathing hard with exertion, beaming.

Jack risked a glance at the other members of the Burgess gang.

Jamie was gaping. The other boys weren't much better. Pippa and Sophie simply looked _delighted_. Jack's survival instincts nudged at him to flee, but part of him knew it was already too late.

"You're drafted," said Captain Cupcake of the Boondocks Brigade.

* * *

Jack ended up dancing the part of a girl most of the rest of the afternoon, partly to make even numbers and partly because Sophie was right: the boys were way behind the girls in figuring out the steps.

"Doesn't that bother you?" Jamie asked at one point, stopping and staring at Jack trying to make Monty's leads into something a little less painful. Pippa glared at her partner.

"Doesn't what bother me?" Jack asked, guiding Monty through a turn.

"You know, dancing the girl's part."

Jack rolled his eyes at his more-or-less brother. "You're way too hung up on gender roles. One, I'm five-four and Monty's like five-foot-forty." The gangly teenager looked half abashed and half proud. "Leading him would be a pain. Two, dancing a follow doesn't make me a girl. And three, I know you've seen Tooth let loose. The only person scarier than her is Sandy. Girls _aren't_ weak."

"Huh," said Jamie, and was glared back into practicing his lackluster steps by Pippa.

* * *

Jamie manhandled the sofa back against the edge of the room while Jack flipped through a stack of dusty LPs.

"Those were my dad's," Jamie said, shoving the heavy piece of furniture hard against the wall with one last grunt. "Mom hasn't played them in years, but she refuses to get rid of them. Says there's too many memories in them or something."

"Well, I can tell you this: your dad had great taste in music." Jack paused at one. "Queen. Cool." He looked back up at Jamie. "Seriously, you should listen to some of these. They're awesome."

Jamie flopped dramatically onto the sofa. "They're _ancient_ ," he whined.

"You kids and your synth-thrash-punk," Jack retorted. "Get off my lawn." Jamie smiled, which had been Jack's goal. "Anyway, these are _classics_. Not quite as good as live music, but the next best thing."

"Live...?" Jamie propped himself up on an elbow. "Wait, do you sneak into concerts or something?"

Jack's reply was a brilliant grin.

"How long have you been doing that?"

Jack pulled out an album, flipped it around to examine the back cover. "You really wanna know?"

"I really wanna know," Jamie confirmed.

Jack shrugged. If Jamie really wanted to know.... "I heard Mozart played _by_ Mozart."

Jamie's mouth worked soundlessly for a minute. Then, "How old _are_ you, again?" he demanded.

"Three hundred twenty-three," Jack replied. "Also, eternally eighteen. Am I breaking your brain yet?"

" _Yes_."

"Then allow me to add this: I'm the _baby_ of the Guardians." Jack smiled wickedly.

"I hate you. So, so much."

Jack merely grinned, and pulled the album out of its sleeve, placing the black disc reverently on the turntable. "Sophie!" he called out. "Wanna help Jamie's dancing suck less?"

"Sure!" she called back from the other room, then came skidding in to the living room.

"Shoes off," Jack instructed both of them.

"What? Why?"

"It makes the turns easier." Jack watched both Bennetts put their running shoes by the wall. "Right, assume dance position."

Sighing, Jamie took his sister's hands in his. Jack dropped the needle on the record, and watched the siblings practice as Billy Joel sang his heart out about Vienna. It was a slower song, so it should be easier for Jamie to work with than the fast-paced songs Cupcake had preferred. "Rock step, triple step triple step, rock step, triple step triple step," Jack coached.

Jamie was biting his lip in concentration, trying too hard not to mess up. Jack stepped up behind him, placed his hands on Jamie's hips, dancing with him, guiding his weight shifts. "You're thinking too hard," Jack said. "You need to let go, feel the music."

"Easy for you to say." Jamie's footing stuttered, but he recovered. "You've been doing this for decades!"

Jack rolled his eyes. The next song started - one he liked, the one about a girl named Virginia - and he flicked a snowflake into the air. It drifted there for a moment, then hit Jamie squarely on the nose.

"Jack, that's - Jack, that's cheating!" Jamie laughed, but sure enough, his footwork was improving, his body rocking, and, yep, he was getting into the music.

It didn't make him a superior dancer, but it sure as hell made Jamie a lot less painful dancer. Laughing, Jack danced away, letting Sophie take charge of her brother.

And, whoo, was that a barrel roll?

But even better than the improvement was how both Bennetts now looked happy, like dancing was no longer a chore. Like it was _fun_. Which was what it was supposed to be.

 _I think I've done good here._ Smiling, Jack let that thought warm his cold.

* * *

**Author's Note:** The song Cupcake and Jack were dancing to is "Ragtime Cat" by Parov Stelar. The album Jack put on in Jamie's living room was the B side of Billy Joel's "The Stranger." And, yes, my Wonderful Husband and I do swing dance. However did you guess? :)


	14. TimeKeeper

May, 2018

It had been six years since Jamie had stood in the middle of a battle of immortals, and he was realizing now what he'd been too young to fully realize then: he was _mortal_ and could die here so, so easily.

But he couldn't let that stop him. The spirit of winter was his brother, and Jamie didn't know who the old guy in the dusty brown robes was, but he was yelling about putting the seasons _in their proper place_.

There was no world in which Jamie could take that as a good sign.

A year and a half of parkour training helped Jamie dodge and duck along with Jack and Bunny, but he didn't have any boomerangs, couldn't fire off any ice blasts, _had nothing to throw_ except for the contents of his bookbag, and he doubted that pens and paper would be of much use here.

He was useless, except for being a third target to draw off some of the old spirit's shots. And every one that Jamie could duck was one less aimed at Jack or Bunny, one more opportunity for them to get the drop on the guy....

And as Jack spun to bat off/freeze a tendril of dingy gray sand, the old guy pulled something from inside his robes and threw it hard, unerringly at Jack's back.

Whatever it was, Jamie knew, it was bad news. And Jack didn't see it. And Bunny didn't see it.

But Jamie did.

He threw himself in the way, guarding his brother's back, and managed to snatch the object out of the air.

The world went white.

* * *

Jamie landed with a _crump_ in a heap of snow.

Shaking his head, he scrambled upright, only to pause and stare warily around himself.

He was in the middle of a forest. No Jack. No Bunny. No spirit psycho in brown robes. It was, in fact, eerily quiet.

Jamie did a full 360, examining his surroundings. He was nowhere he recognized, and if there were any signs of civilization, they were beyond his sight or hearing.

There were also no tracks in the snow, which was significantly deeper than it had been at home, and it was cold.

_Don't panic,_ he thought. Jack had taken him winter camping often enough that he was pretty sure he could survive being in the middle of nowhere in the snow for a while. Even if all he had on him was his bookbag, with its half roll of wintergreen Lifesavers his only food. _First, warmth._ Jamie zipped up his jacket and snapped the placket closed. He fished his gloves out of the bag's outer pocket, and his scarf too, wrapping it around his throat. Fortunately, his hat had come with him, wherever he was. _Jack will finish dealing with the psycho, and then he'll come looking for you. And if you're panicking, he's going to laugh._

Jamie looked down at the snow, to judge its depth and how hard it was going to be to plow a path, and paused. Something gleamed by his feet. He knelt down, picked it up, dusted it off.

It was the object the guy had thrown at Jack.

It was an hourglass.

Jamie swallowed, his heart sinking as the implications sank into his brain. "That guy better not have been Father Time," he whispered, trying not to think of the gray sand whips that had looked nothing like the Sandman's. Trying not to think about what the implications of having caught one of Time's hourglasses would be.

He closed his eyes, sucked in a deep breath. He'd faced down the Boogeyman. This? This was nothing. "Jack _will_ find me," Jamie told himself firmly. "I just have to keep it together until then. First, shelter." He tucked the little hourglass into a pocket and looked up at the sky. It was totally overcast; he couldn't tell if it was morning, midday, or afternoon. "I'll pretend this is south," he said, and picked a direction at random, breaking his way through the snow.

* * *

Half an hour later, or maybe more (when he got back home, Jamie was going to _glue_ his watch to his wrist and never take it off again), he'd reached thinner snow under thicker trees, and was making better time, when he suddenly came face-to-face with a man bearing a musket.

Jamie froze. "Ahh..." he said warily, staring at the man who, to his credit, seemed as startled as Jamie himself.

The man blinked at him, then shouldered the weapon. He broke out in a broad grin. "Well met, young sir! I had thought myself alone in the woods this day. Pray tell, do you come from Brewster's Town?"

"Um." Jamie blinked, mind flickering rapidly. No one carried muskets anymore. The man's clothes, worn and humble, looked like they were something out of an old painting. And his speech was odd, old-fashioned.

One of the main streets in Burgess was Brewsterton Way.

Jamie wasn't liking the conclusion his brain was giving him. _I think the hourglass sent me to the past...._

"I'm from B...oston," Jamie said, naming a city far enough away that it was likely a colonial might not've been there. (A colonial? When was he? Was Jack born yet? Or reborn? Oh fuck, how was Jamie going to screw up the timeline by talking to this guy?) He swallowed. "Can you tell me where I am, sir?"

The man looked taken aback. "Pennsylvania, young sir. Not far from the village of Burgess. Travelling, are you?" He looked around. "Alone, in this weather?" His face took on an expression Jamie couldn't quite parse - incredulous, maybe.

"Um, not exactly." Jamie looked around, hoping for inspiration. None came. He bit his lip, looked back at the man. "I was... going to visit my uncle," he fibbed rapidly. "I fell asleep in the, um, in the carriage. Next thing I know, I woke up in the woods." It was a pale excuse for a lie, and his mother would have seen through it instantly.

The man, however, took it in, seemed to accept it as truth, given the way his eyes widened slightly and how he nodded. "Brigands," he said grimly. "We've had trouble with their sort the last year. Nothing but a lot of ruffians, and I'd see them all hanged before they kill another child." His expression was grim now, and he checked Jamie over carefully. "Well met indeed, young sir." He stuck his hand out. "Thomas Frost. I've a ways yet to go on my rounds, but I think it'd be best if you came with me."

Jamie bit his lip, then nodded. "Jamie... well, _James_ Bennett," he introduced himself, taking and shaking the offered hand. "I'd be honored, sir. I was worried I'd be lost in the woods forever."

Thomas nodded, and laughed, then walked on, gesturing for Jamie to follow him, which Jamie did. "Not a woodsman, then, James?"

"No, sir. My brother's tried to teach me some of his skills, but I think I'm better suited for city life."

Thomas stepped lightly through the snow and bracken. He hardly made a sound as he walked, reminding Jamie of another person named Frost. He tried to emulate the lightness of the man's steps. "How old are you, James?"

"Sixteen."

A nod. "I thought as much. I have a boy at home your age." Thomas' shoulders hunched. "Truth told, he'd usually be accompanying me today. He's a dab hand with traps."

"My brother's taught me some traps," Jamie offered. "Maybe I can try."

Brown eyes glanced back, met his. "I wouldn't say no."

* * *

It was hours later, approaching sunset, when Jamie followed Thomas back to Burgess... or what would become Burgess. It currently wasn't too impressive to Jamie's eyes, a mere dozen or so cabins arranged around a central area. But it held promise, and he knew what it would one day _become_.

They'd had good luck, with nearly half the traps holding dead squirrels and one white-coated rabbit. Better luck in that the traps were all types Jamie knew, and could reset.

"I'm afraid I can't ask you to stay with my family," Thomas said apologetically as they approached the cluster of buildings. "My son's sick - the measles, we think - and he's gone from bad to worse. Phillipa didn't get it nearly so hard, and healed up first, praise God. But even she's staying with the Tanners until we know one way or another how it will go." The worry which had now and again flared up on his face was writ there large now. "He's always been so strong, we weren't expecting this."

"I've... had the measles," Jamie said, which was a lie, he _hadn't_ , but he'd got all the standard immunizations, including MMR, years ago. "I shouldn't be able to get them again. I don't know if I'd be any help, but I could certainly try."

Part of the worry evaporated from Thomas' face, and Jamie realized the man had been trying to figure out which of his neighbors to burden with an unexpected guest. "If you're sure...."

"I am." Jamie nodded.

"Well, then, you're welcome to stay with us." They had reached the cabin door, and Thomas opened it even as he stamped his feet on the packed ground outside. "Mary!" he called within. "I've brought us a guest."

Following suit, Jamie stomped the snow and debris off his boots before entering, closing the door behind himself. He nodded courteously at the woman standing by the fire, assuming her to be Thomas' wife. "Ma'am."

Her expression morphed from surprise to shock. "Thomas, how dare you bring--"

A cough from the corner of the room caught Jamie's attention even as the woman reproved her husband for bringing a guest into a sickhouse.

The woman's words fell away from Jamie's hearing as he saw the boy laying on the bed. He felt his expression mirror hers, going from surprise to shock.

_Burgess,_ he thought, feeling like an idiot for not putting the pieces together before. _Frost._

The boy in the bed was far rosier than the face he was used to seeing, and the damp hair was brown instead of snow-white, but....

"Jack Frost," Jamie breathed, even as the boy who would become his brother gave in to a wracking coughing fit.


End file.
